


Under The Surface

by Brenda



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Noir, BAMF Natasha, BAMF Sam Wilson, F/M, Flirting & Banter, M/M, POV Sam Wilson, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Private Investigators, banter as foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 07:56:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1771531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A good private dick learned two things right from the get-go if he was worth his salt at all.  One, always get paid up front.  And two, always <i>always</i> trust that little warning voice in your gut when it started chirping.</i>
</p><p>  <i>Sam Wilson was a very good private eye.  And right now, every sense he had was telling him that Natasha Romanoff knew a helluva lot more than what she was letting on.</i></p><p> </p><p>(1940s Noir AU because I maybe watched <i>Double Indemnity</i> and <i>Chinatown</i> way too many times growing up. )</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under The Surface

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ybw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ybw/gifts).



> Many thanks to Melle and to Jo for their betas and advice on tone and atmosphere.

"I'm telling you, Sam, _something_ happened to him," Steve said, dogging Sam's footsteps as he followed Sam into his cramped little office off Fairfax Avenue. Place may not look like much – there was just barely enough room for a reception area and his ancient, beat-to-hell desk – but it was all Sam's, every inch of it earned. Earned through his own blood, sweat and tears, taking shit job after shit job until he'd built up enough of a rep to start snagging the more interesting ones, upgrading from spying on two-timing husbands to actually looking into cases the cops didn't have time or manpower to investigate on their own. It had been a long, hard trek to get where he was.

Whoever it was that said the road to success was paved in elbow grease sure as shit hadn't been kidding.

"Yeah, you keep sayin'," Sam replied, unlocking the door and stepping into the stuffy, windowless room. The only concession to the heat was the fan lazily whirring in the corner. It barely stirred the air. Sam could already feel the beads of sweat forming under his collar.

"Only because you won't _listen_ to me –" Steve pulled up short. His face fell into a disappointed frown. "How can you even find anything in all this mess?"

"It's the maid's year off," Sam replied, and tossed his fedora on his desk. Sure, he had piles of paper and case files everywhere, but at least it meant he had work. Besides, he'd seen Steve's desk at his office at the Times and no way he had any room to gab about cleanliness.

Although, maybe it was time Sam hired a secretary part-time or something. At the very least, he could use someone to answer the phone while he was out, maybe give his clients a little something nice to look at when they walked in the door. And business was good enough he could afford it.

He stood behind his desk and crossed his arms. Leveled his best glare at Steve. "I'm a little busy here, as you can see, Cap. I don't have time to chase Bucky Barnes all over every dive in Los Angeles." Steve winced, but Sam plowed on. He knew every frame of this sob story by heart by now. "He'll crawl back home when he's ready to sober up and we both know it."

"That's just it, Sam, he hasn't _been_ hitting the bottle lately." Steve raked a hand through his hair and gave Sam a serious, earnest look. "Maybe you ain't really noticed, but he's been sober for months. Got himself a steady gig working with Barton doing rigging over at UA. Been coming home after his shift every night. It's been _good_. He's been better, I swear."

Sam sighed. He wished – not for the first time – that he'd taken up smoking during the War the way so many of his friends had. Just to have something to do with his hands. "Did it ever occur to you that he may have fallen off the wagon?"

"No, he wouldn't. He _promised_ ," Steve stressed, with a beseeching look, made those too-pretty blue eyes of his pop against pale, freckled skin. "You gotta help me. I've done as much as I can on my own, but most people I've tried to talk to about him, they're not gonna open up to a guy who works for the press. They don't seem to care much that I'm not really a reporter."

"You got some kinda nerve, I'll give you that." Moxie to spare, that was Steve Rogers all over. Stand-up guy, built like a tank and a true quarterback in the field of battle. Earned himself the nickname Captain America back during the War, and it was only partially due to the sun-kissed blond hair and open, earnest face. But Rogers was also the most stubborn bastard on the planet, and far too loyal for his own good. He'd go to the ends of the earth for his friends.

Especially Bucky Barnes.

Steve, perhaps sensing Sam's softening stance, gave him a wry twist of his lips. "Please, Sam. I don't know where else to go."

Sam was pretty sure there was someone out there who could resist Steve, but he sure as hell wasn't that person. Besides, Rogers had saved his life at least a dozen times during the War. Hell, Barnes too, for that matter. 

It wasn't caving. He was simply doing a favor for a friend. 

"I'll put a few feelers out."

To his credit, Steve didn't gloat. "Thank you."

"Don't bother. You know he's probably passed out in some dame's bed or he's back on the sauce. He ain't had a real easy time adjusting back to civilian life."

"Have any of us?" Steve asked quietly. The harsh light overhead made the shadows under his eyes look deeper. "The things we did over there, shit we saw...I don't know of anyone who sleeps easy these days."

"Yeah, I guess you're right about that." God knew Sam had been burning the midnight oil a lot lately himself. And a car back-firing could still send him running for cover. "Write me out a list of who all you've talked to and where you've been. How long's he been gone?"

"Three days."

Shit, no wonder Steve was so strung out. "I'll do what I can. No promises."

***

The Red Room Gentlemen's Club wasn't much to look at in broad daylight. If a person didn't know any better, they could mistake it for just another house at the end of a quiet street in Bunker Hill. Two-story, Victorian, cheerful and welcoming. But, like most things in the City of Angels, if you scratched under the surface, there was a whole different world just waiting to suck you in. Sam had never set foot in the place, but he'd heard the stories same as anyone else who had their ear to the ground. 

The Red Room was _the_ place to go when you were in the mood for something outside the mainstream clubs or gambling joints. Provided, of course, that you had the coin to get past the front door. Rumor had it that Natasha Romanoff – or, as she was affectionately known by those who frequented the club, the Black Widow – had learned her trade in Paris and Moscow before making her way stateside, and that everyone she employed was put through a rigorous training regime before they ever even saw a paying customer. The girls– and the few fellas she had on staff – were all supposedly comfortable with _everything_. And anything your heart desired could be had for the right price.

Vice was never cheap.

But, in the warm light of the afternoon summer sun, the place could be a respectable boarding house or bed & breakfast.

He knocked on the front door and rocked slightly on his heels as he waited. Alert eyes catalogued the lay of the land, a soldier's instinct he'd put to good use once he'd decided on this career path. Place looked to be in good shape. Fresh paint on the outside, nice flowers in the yard, patio furniture looked sturdy and well kept. Definitely not the typical flop or whore house.

The door opened the barest crack and one eye peered out. "Deliveries are around back, mister."

Sam caught the door with his hand before it could shut all the way. "Do I look like a deliveryman?" he asked, gesturing at his suit and tie and hat.

The door opened slightly wider, revealing a slender, tall honey of a blonde. She was admirably filling out a baby-blue night dress that was so flimsy it looked like it was made of gossamer. She shrugged. "I dunno, maybe you're on your way to church or somethin'."

"Or maybe I'm here to see Miss Romanoff."

The blonde snorted. "Ain't you a riot. You don't just show up on the front doorstep at two in the afternoon and expect to see Natasha. Especially, a man like you."

"A man like me, hmm?" He knew what she meant. He'd been dealing with this same shit and the same bigotry his entire life. Even out here in Los Angeles, the supposed land of equal opportunity, the same old prejudices still reared their ugly heads. But then, he'd heard a helluva lot worse growing up and in the trenches during the War. Hell, he'd only gotten a spot in the 107th because both Rogers and Barnes vouched for him. "You know they're letting _men like me_ in the majors now?"

"Yeah, I heard." She didn't look too impressed. Maybe she wasn't a baseball fan. "Look, fella, you gotta understand, most black guys looking for a white girl to bang, they don't come _here_ to do it, and if they do, they don't come through the front door all bold as brass."

"Well, I ain't here to bang a white girl," Sam retorted, temper clipping the edges of his voice. "How about you just tell Miss Romanoff that Sam Wilson, Private Investigator, is here to talk to her about The Winter Soldier."

"Look, pal –"

"It's alright, Alice. Let him in."

With a scowl, Alice swung the door open and stepped aside. 

"Ma'am," Sam said, tipping his hat to her with the biggest fuck you bow he knew how to give, and stepped inside cool interior of the foyer. His gaze was immediately drawn to the winding freshly polished staircase and to the dazzling dish standing on the upstairs landing.

No, dazzling wasn't exactly right. That word didn't really do her justice. She was, to quote something Steve once said about Peggy Carter, a dame with a capital D. Sam let his appreciative gaze wander from the wavy fall of bright red hair to a heart-shaped face down to a curvy body draped in a black silk gown that fell to mid-thigh and showed off mile-long pale legs. A glint of silver at her ankle caught his eye and he grinned as she made her slow way down the stairs.

"Barbara Stanwyck fan?" Sam had caught her newest flick about a month or so ago with Barnes and Rogers, and had gotten ribbed for days about how none of his clients looked anything like that. He wondered if this was supposed to make him Fred MacMurray.

Ruby red lips lifted in a small, feminine smile. "She knows how to make an entrance." Her voice carried a lilt of some exotic accent, sounded like the couple that ran the bakery under his office, Eastern European or Russian, maybe.

When she got to the bottom landing, she stopped, and held out a hand. "Natasha Romanoff." 

The infamous Black Widow herself. Sam could see how a man wouldn't mind getting caught in her web.

This time, he swept his hat off his head entirely and bent to place a kiss to the back of her hand. Her scent, subtle and feminine and mysterious, tickled his senses. "Sam Wilson. It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am."

"No one's called me ma'am in a long time, Mr. Wilson." 

He swept another gaze over her. "No, I imagine everyone's too busy calling out to God when they're with you to worry about manners."

Her laugh was delighted and deep-throated, wormed its way under Sam's skin like an itch he couldn't scratch. "I like you," she stated, then turned to Alice, who was still standing in the foyer glaring daggers in Sam's direction. If looks could kill, Sam would be six feet under. "It's alright, you don't have to stay."

"Suit yourself," Alice shrugged, and turned, flouncing off down the hall in a cloud of blue.

"You'll have to forgive Alice. She's new to The Red Room," Natasha said. "Still in training."

The apology was unexpected, but welcome. "I gotta admit, I'm curious about the lessons a girl would get here."

"Maybe I'll let you sit in on one some day," she said, and finished descending the stairs. She only came up to Sam's shoulder, but the way she carried herself, one would have thought she was a lot taller. "Come on, we can talk in the library."

He followed her down a short hallway into a cozy, sunny room stacked to the brim with all kinds of books. He looked around in admiration. It was rare to meet a gal in this town who even admitted to having smarts, let alone one that flaunted it out in the open for everyone to see. "Nice collection. You read all of them?"

"Most of them." She crossed the room to the small bar and picked up a crystal decanter. "Drink, Mr. Wilson?"

"Sure, if you're pouring. And it's Sam."

"Sam, then." She filled two tumblers – also crystal and looking like they cost more than Sam's car – halfway with amber liquid and pressed one into Sam's hand. Then she took a seat in one of the floral-patterned highback chairs and tucked her legs under her. 

Sam took an experimental sip. Cognac, and a nicely aged one, too. "Smooth," he commented, and took the other chair. He liked that she thought him worthy of the good stuff.

"So, now that you have my attention, what brings you to my doorstep?" She took a cigarette out from an ebony case, lit it with a filigreed lighter that was probably a gift from a client. When she exhaled, the bright plume of smoke wove a halo around her face.

"A favor for a friend," Sam told her. "I'm looking for someone."

"Aren't we all?"

She was clever, he'd give her that. "A specific someone. Man named James Buchanan Barnes, goes by Bucky."

"We get a lot of men through these doors, Sam," Natasha replied, with another ruby-lipped smile. "You're gonna have to be more specific."

"See, that's just it, Miss Romanoff –"

She blew a perfect smoke ring, smiled again. "Natasha, please."

"Alright, Natasha." Her name rolled like fine whiskey on his tongue. "That's just it. I think you know exactly who I'm talking about. And I think you know where he is."

"And what makes you think I know anything of the sort?" She didn't move by so much as an inch.

"Because you're in cahoots with Alexander Pierce."

Cool green eyes assessed him from under impossibly long eyelashes. Sam looked back, careful not to let his gaze drop below her neck. Yeah, she was a looker alright, but she had a brain to go with the body, and that made her more dangerous than any number of lowlifes Sam dealt with on a daily basis. He was sure he wouldn't be the first to be distracted by her considerable charms. 

_Tread carefully, Wilson,_ he reminded himself. _Here be dragons._

"Tell me what you know about Alexander Pierce," she finally said. Sam wondered if she knew her accent was getting stronger.

"I know nothing happens in Los Angeles that doesn't go through him – not booze, not dope, not tail. I know he's got a lock on all the gambling from here to Reno. And I know he's got ties back East."

"Not just back East," she corrected, but didn't elaborate. "He's not a man you want to cross."

"I'm not looking to cross anybody, I just want to find my friend before our mutual friend does something stupid. Well, stupider than usual," he amended, because stupid ideas and Steve went together like Fred and Ginger.

"This mutual friend, does he have a name?"

"Steve Rogers. He works for the Times. Cartoonist. You might've seen some of his work."

She took a slow, small sip of her cognac. "You should tell Mr. Rogers to cut his losses where Mr. Barnes is concerned."

"Yeah, that ain't gonna fly," Sam replied, with a sardonic laugh. He knew she was probably trying to be serious, but it was still the funniest thing he'd heard all week. "You don't know Steve. And you don't know the type of bond Steve and Bucky have. The two of 'em grew up together, thick as thieves, closer than brothers, went to war together...keeping an eye out on the other one is about as ingrained in them as breathing, you get me?"

Then he leaned forward, cupped his glass in both hands. "Now I know you know where Bucky is, or you at least know why he's mixed up with Pierce. Steve's been looking for Bucky for a few days now, but he don't got the resources I do, and he don't have my network. And all of my sources've been telling me the same story. And the story goes Bucky owes Pierce a debt, and the Winter Soldier came to collect."

"Ah yes, the Winter Soldier," Natasha replied. She set her glass on the table and stubbed out her cigarette. "Pierce's most trusted lieutenant and enforcer."

"Most trusted assassin, you mean," Sam said. "I know all about him, too. Sharp shooter, handy with a blade and in close combat, moves like a ghost, hell, no one even knows what he looks like, he's so good. Some people think he's just a story Pierce made up to give himself more of an aura."

"What do you think?"

He drained his glass and set it next to hers. "I think I wanna know why Pierce thinks Bucky owes him a debt."

"No, I don't think you do," she said, and smoothly stood. Her hair framed her face like a bright flame. "I think we've both said enough for one meeting."

Sam got to his feet and grabbed her elbow before she could complete the turn. Her skin was like satin under his hands, looked like alabaster against his own, but he didn't – couldn't – let himself get distracted. "Why don't you tell me whatever it is you're trying to keep from me?"

A good private dick learned two things right from the get-go if he was worth his salt at all. One, always get paid up front. And two, always _always_ trust that little warning voice in your gut when it started chirping.

Sam Wilson was a very good private eye. And right now, every sense he had was telling him that Natasha Romanoff knew a helluva lot more than what she was letting on.

She gave his fingers a pointed glance. "Better men than you have regretted laying an unwanted hand on me."

"I got no doubts about that." But, as a gesture of good faith, he dropped his hold. However, he didn't step back to give her any space. Two could play her little game. "Now, are we gonna do this dance or are you gonna be straight with me?" 

She held his gaze for a few long heartbeats. The clock on the wall ticked unusually loud to his ears. Then she sighed, and he exhaled right along with her.

"Let's just say Rogers has been fancying himself an investigative reporter the last few weeks and asking a lot of questions he shouldn't."

"Investigating what?" _Oh, Steve, what have you gotten yourself into?_

"Certain land use permits filed with the L.A. County Clerk's office regarding a new supposed housing project in LaVerne."

Sam winced. "Pierce's?" he guessed. Which meant there was a lot more to the project than was on the surface. He didn't even want to speculate as to what.

She nodded. "And none of the usual...suggestions...to let the matter drop worked."

He didn't want to speculate about that, either. "So...what? Pierce decides to kidnap Bucky as a warning to get Steve to stop snooping?"

She laughed, and shook her head. "No, Mr. Wilson, Barnes offered himself as the sacrificial goat if Pierce left your friend Rogers alone."

"Oh, Bucky..." Sam let out a pained breath. "That sounds like his brand of stupid." Barnes and Rogers were a goddamned matched set.

"As you said earlier, the two of them have always looked out for each other."

"That doesn't explain..." He frowned, as more puzzle pieces fell into place. No one had ever accused Sam Wilson of being slow on the uptake. "Buck's working for Pierce's Winter Soldier?" 

God knew Barnes had been one of the best damn shots in their unit – as a sniper, he'd saved everyone's life more than once. But Sam also knew that Barnes hated the killing and the blood on his hands and everything about the War. That was why he'd tried to drown himself in booze for so long, to silence the guilt and the screams of the dying.

"No, that's not what I'm saying," she replied, and this time, her smile was regretful. "But there really are some things best left to the dark. This isn't a road you or your friend wants to go down."

He thought back to the determined look on Steve's face. "Ma'am, for Bucky, Steve would brave the Devil himself."

"He might just have to." The warning in her voice was explicit.

"Yeah, okay." He swiped his hat from the table and set it on his head. "Just...if you happen to see Barnes or you can get word to him, tell him Steve's looking for him. Tell him if he doesn't want his sacrifice to be in vain, he might want to get in touch with Steve, at least let Steve know he's alive."

"I'll make sure he gets the message."

He bent over her hand again, letting the kiss linger. No harm in indulging himself a little now that he had some answers. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Natasha."

"Likewise, Sam. You stay careful out there," she told him, and kept her hand in his for a few extra seconds. "Don't let that soft spot for your friends get you into trouble." 

"I'd say I'll try, but I can't lie to a lady." 

He knew this wasn't the end of it – no way Rogers was gonna be satisfied with Sam's report, and honestly, Sam wasn't exactly satisfied himself. But he couldn't push further until Steve heard from Barnes. He owed Natasha that much for being straight with him.

Later, he couldn't exactly say why he did it, but he pulled out his wallet and handed her one of his business cards. "If you ever wanted a night off, or maybe dinner with a man who's not in a rush to get to dessert, give me a call."

"Are you asking me out on a date, Mr. Wilson?" she asked, wry and amused.

"Sure, if that's what you want to call it. Unless you got a problem with being seen in public with a colored fella." There were plenty of places he could go where they'd be safe – joints in East L.A. that wouldn't even bat an eyelash at seeing them together. Maybe he'd take her dancing. He bet watching her on the floor would be a real treat.

"I'm Russian," she stated, with an insouciant roll of her shoulders. "I know what it's like to feel persecuted in your own country."

"I'm gonna take that as a yes, then."

She laughed, and once again, the sound of it was like music to his ears. "I get the feeling your friends aren't the only ones who have no sense of self-preservation."

"Playing it safe's not my style. Besides, I think you'd be worth that price." This time, he let his gaze roam over every inch of skin on display. She really did have the best gams he'd ever seen in person, and this included the USO girls that he'd seen performing in France during the War.

"I don't think you can afford the Black Widow's price."

"I wasn't talking about the Black Widow," Sam said, pleased to see the hint of confusion pass over her face. "I was talking about Natasha Romanoff. What you call yourself when you're working...I don't think that's the real you at all."

Her eyebrow lifted, and there was no mistaking the look on her face. Coy and feminine and as old as Eve herself. "Gonna save me from my wicked ways, is that it?"

"No, I'm not interested in saving anyone. Just interested in getting to know you a bit better when you're wearing more in the way of clothes."

"Well, that's a first," she replied, with a rueful smile.

"I'm not saying I'd turn down an offer to strip you down and lay you out," he grinned. "I'm not blind."

"No, I don't think you are," she murmured, and this time, her look was speculative. Intrigued.

"Although, when I do take you out, do me a favor."

"I'm listening."

"Wear the anklet. I like it." Sam winked, and left the room before he decided to do something truly inadvisable, like take her in his arms. He got the feeling not too many people got in the last word on Natasha Romanoff.

It wasn't until he got to the sidewalk that he let himself slow, then stop. He had no idea what he was gonna tell Steve, if anything. He just hoped, for both his and Bucky's sake, that this debt wasn't gonna wind up getting either of them killed. Be a shame to survive the War intact only to die stateside.

***

**Author's Note:**

> You can now find me on [Tumblr](http://brendaonao3.tumblr.com/). :)


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